


Closed Doors

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Full Support Spoilers, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Post-B Support, autistic characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: The wall between them helps Ferdinand and Bernadetta remove barriers.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	Closed Doors

A hum filters out of Bernadetta’s room. Were this an opera, the tune would signify tranquility—and Ferdinand, not long ago, the villain who shattered it. What did she say then? _One mistake doesn’t ruin everything_? Though doubtful, he clutches the plate he carries and steps closer, pressing his ear to the wood. The sweet melody doesn’t ring any bells, as much as it resembles one. The need to announce himself prevents him from studying it. Unlike a certain rat, he would never stoop to eavesdropping on a lady’s room.

He knocks, three sharp raps that make him wince in the comparative quiet. The nearest songbird takes flight, and the one inside goes silent.

“Bernadetta? Do you have a moment?”

“Is that you, Ferdinand?”

“Yes, it is only me. I brought you something.”

“What kind of something?”

He cannot begrudge her slow, suspicious tone. He presents the plate as if she can see. “Only the finest almond cookies! Or recognizable almond cookies, at least. Mercedes helped me make them—that is, I may have been of help to her. So fear not, they are superb.”

It is difficult to hide his disappointment. He intended to work alone, but Mercedes seemed to sense his distress from outside the kitchen walls, and her efforts made for a better result to share with friends. Just, perhaps not Dorothea, this time.

“Almond cookies? Wait, are you bribing me into leaving?” she asks. He pictures her cheeks puffing out.

“No! I swear, I only intended to drop them off. You may retrieve them whenever you wish.” He sets the plate on the ground. This part lacks foresight; nothing is stopping the hounds from arriving to clear it.

Shuffling sounds come from inside. “If they’re so good, don’t you wanna eat them?”

“Of course, but good food and fortune should be shared.”

“In that case, I guess I should share these with you.” Hushed, her slow speech sounds unsure rather than accusatory.

“I would be honored to accept your hospitality,” he says with a short bow. There is no proper way to ease himself onto the ground. He draws up his knees and glances over his shoulder. The lawn is as clear as the sky; in such sunshine, everyone but Bernadetta leaves the dorms, allowing no spectators to Ferdinand’s sloth as he nibbles on a cookie. Unlike the batch he attempted alone, it has a satisfying chew. If only there were a way to set up tea outside Bernadetta’s room...

The logistics lead him down a tunnel before her voice retrieves him. “Are you eating them? Are they good?”

“Oh, how rude of me not to narrate. Yes, Mercedes is an excellent baker, thank you. I think you will quite like the sweetness.” A bar of music repeats in his head, from a low note, to high, to low again. Curiosity bests him. “By the way, what was that song you were humming?”

“Humming?” she squeaks. “When?”  
  
“When I first arrived. It was quite serene."

“I’ve never hummed in my life! You must have heard a bird.”

“My mistake,” he says, though he cannot imagine that is so. “In that case, is it all right if I hum something?”

“Why? So you can trick me into joining you?”

“No, it is simply a lovely day, and I never get the chance to practice.”

He checks that they are still alone. Nobody can see his face—a waste of perfectly groomed eyebrows, but at least there is no need to worry about everything his etiquette tutor grilled into him. The day she warned his mother he would be a lost cause if he could not even master his volume and expressions, let alone interpret others’…

Well, he has refused to be named a _lost cause_ again.

“I don’t mind if you hum,” Bernadetta says.

“Hm?” Somehow, he has begun hugging his knees. He sits up straighter. “Oh! Any requests?”  
  
“I told you, I don’t sing. Just pick something.”

One of his favorite operas comes to mind. He takes a deep breath before launching into the opening notes: high, to low, to high again. The familiar melody comforts him, each note written and performed by his inspirations, like a well-worn trail. He closes his eyes, forgetting his audience in favor of his throats’ vibrations and the feeling that welled up in him upon first hearing the song.

The final note hangs in the air. He blinks the world back in: the concrete beneath him and the plate at his ankles. Just in time, he saves it from a sniffing cat. He tries to balance the plate on his knees while he pets the cat’s neck—too roughly, as his family keeps hounds. The cat slinks away before he can rectify it.

“Your voice is really beautiful,” Bernadetta says. It rings true, the hushed awe of someone not entrapped by manners. He scratches his neck as a smile creeps onto his face. A noble with his achievements should expect praise, but, well, he has not actually achieved much yet, or received many kind words from his peers. “What was that song?”

“You have never heard it? It is from one of the more well-known operas.” Why did he say such a thoughtless thing? Shut inside her room, she never could have attended. “Of course, there is no shame in not having seen it. I am just a fan of triumphant tales.”

“Oh, yeah. Dorothea put on something like that for the kids, I think. Sorry, I bet you were already involved in that.”

If Dorothea ever invited him to help with a performance, he would probably faint until the show was over. “Ah, no. It is just a private little hobby of mine.”

“Even you have private hobbies? But you’re so good, and you’re always so confident.”

It must be odd, him not putting his all into something. Disappointing. He taps his foot, almost toppling the plate from his knee. He rescues it and shifts to a cross-legged position.

“It does not befit a future prime minister to prance about on stage,” he says, his voice an echo. His foot keeps wiggling.

“Um, I don’t really get it, but can’t prime ministers do whatever they want?”

He chuckles dryly. “My father certainly behaves as if that is true.”

The conversation is on the cusp of spiraling from his control, his mouth going the way of his foot. He steers it away from himself. “Say, Bernadetta? If you could choose any job in the world, what would you choose?”

Ah, too late. What a thing to even think!

“Any job? Why?”  
  
“Pure curiosity. All hypothetical, of course,” he says.

“If I could choose?” she repeats, her voice slow again for reasons he cannot guess. “Promise you won’t laugh or tell anyone?”

“On my honor.”

She has become louder, as if she is sitting on the other side of the door. He leans in anyway and hears a breath, as deep as his own before he hummed.

“I want to be a seamstress,” she says in a rush. “And an author. And a painter. And a botanist? Maybe I could write and illustrate books about plants, and, um, make sweaters for the pots…”

He cannot stop the laugh that escapes him, not when sheer joy bubbles up to hear her.

“Oh, I knew you’d laugh,” she says.

“I do not mean to mock you.” He bites down on a cookie to stifle a chuckle. “It is just…” He almost chokes in his haste to swallow. “You are more ambitious than most nobles who show their faces at parties.”

“I don’t get it, but if you say so.”

He finishes the cookie crumbling in his hand. It is in that moment of quiet—the birds elsewhere, no sound from the door he rests against—that he remembers he was supposed to marry her.

He almost chokes again. Now that they have met, it is both easier and harder to envision. Admittedly, curse dolls no longer seem so justified a reason to reject her; he could write to his father that the rumors do not do Varley’s daughter justice. He immediately shoots down the thought. To think of Bernadetta ever finding the peace to hum again, were she pushed to be a prime minister’s wife!

With all she has to fear, how could he have ever feared _her_? When he arrived at the academy, he was determined to reach out a hand anyway, fancying himself some sort of hero—only to prostrate himself for her forgiveness. Now, here he is, huddled by her door in search of a friend.

“Um, this was actually pretty nice,” she says. He jerks up his chin; he had returned to slouching.

“Yes, I agree!”

“Yeah, so, can I have my cookies now?”

“Of course. I did not mean to take so much of your time. Or your cookies.” After checking for thieving cats, he sets down the plate. He brushes crumbs off his pants as he stands. There must be things he should thank her for, but his etiquette classes never covered them.

“Thank you for sharing,” he settles on. Halfway to a bow, he remembers she will not see.

He is almost out of earshot when he catches a snatch of humming, a few notes on the breeze: high, to low, to high again.


End file.
